


retire to the dirt

by CrayfishCoffee



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Aging, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Marriage, Off-screen Character Death, Retirement, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayfishCoffee/pseuds/CrayfishCoffee
Summary: Caleb lays himself down next to Caduceus, shoulders just touching, and closes his eyes. He rests to the sound of distant insects, the soft earth under him, and the feeling of a steady body next to his.in which life is worth living for the quiet moments





	retire to the dirt

**Author's Note:**

> so apparently firbolgs have much longer lifespans than i originally assumed. this is a result of that.

Caleb leans up from his pages and ink with a soft, lingering sigh. To this day he hasn’t learned how to take breaks, and doesn’t realize just how stiff his back has gotten until his muscles flex with a begrudging ache. His bad sitting posture has come back to bite him in his later years, as it takes longer for him to stretch out tight places where kinks have made their home between his vertebrae. But he is in no hurry, He takes his time straightening up, rolling his shoulders and neck to get blood flowing again – the kind of leisure he never allowed himself in the past. When he’s done, he looks down at the elaborate chicken-scratch runes sprawled across the yellow pages, chuckling a bit to himself. Leaving inscriptions half-finished like this would have sent his younger self into a state, pulling at his hair with manic tension as he launches himself back in. Never stop until you  _ get it right _ . He has since lost the immediacy of then. Now, when he looks down at the spells he would have traded life-and-limb to get ahold of, he sees a vexing puzzle that can be left to figure out another day.

Today, his eyes are tired and he feels like a deserved break.

He straightens the sheets into a neat pile with the tips of his scarred fingers, and slides off his spectacles to rest atop of them. Caleb leans back in his chair, letting his eyes slip closed. It’s quiet in his study, no noise besides the soft draw of his own breathing and the breeze as it softly disturbs the windchimes from the opposite side of the house. He feels the warm air brush over his skin from his open window, and without much thought feels his senses slip away from his body.

He opens Frumpkin’s eyes, where he’s currently sunbathing on the warm porch wood. He stays like that for a moment, before Frumpkin lets out a wide yawn and sits up. From the slight change in perspective, he has a clear view of where Caduceus is knelt down in the garden, leaning over to lightly tug on some of the greenery. He watches as Caduceus carefully uproots a long carrot, shaking off some of the dirt still clinging onto the roots before placing it to the side in a basket half-full already. He watches him repeat the same process a couple times over, watches as the sunlight colors the edges of his hair tangerine where his sunhat doesn’t block the rays. 

Caleb allows his senses to come back to him, and pushes away from his desk. When he stands up something in his lower back pops and he takes a moment to groan as something fits back into place. A few moments pass while he confirms he didn’t accidentally paralyze himself, before silently making his way across the house. He catches a glimpse at himself when passing by a small mirror in the corridor, and takes a moment. 

Over the years he’s cared even less about the length of his hair, only taking off lengths of it every now and again whenever he feels inclined. Now it rests just past his shoulder, and his eyes trail over the grey streaks that now run through it while his hand reaches up to rub at the matching salt-and-pepper of his beard. 

 

\---

 

He remembers when he was pulling back his hair before an afternoon of study, not really paying attention until a lock slipped from his hands and directly into his line of sight, practically throwing that first strand of grey into his face. He remembers the way he froze, eyes fixating on that one ashen hair floating amongst the sea of orange, before slowly drawing it back over his head with the rest. Caleb wasn’t, isn’t, a vain man, but he still couldn’t help his eyes from catching upon it in the mirror, and couldn’t stop the growing sense of dread when it was soon followed by two, then five more strands like the ash that rises out of flame.

The grey is a sign of longevity, something Caleb never expected to have – something he didn’t want for a long time.

Beau notices first, and shoves a bony elbow into his ribs while jovially calling him an old man, despite the fact that Fjord’s hair had long since become equal parts charcoal and snow. Nott of course jumps to his defense, fending off Beau’s chuckling remarks before fussingingly reminding Caleb not to overwork himself or he’d give himself even more grey hair. 

Caduceus must notice the tightness in his jaw and how he gazes vacantly into the table after the conversation moves on, because afterwards when everyone starts filing away to their respective rooms in the inn, Caduceus lays one giant palm on his shoulder. 

“You know hair like that is just your body’s way of celebrating having come this far really.” Caduceus intones with his signature lidded eyes and lazy smile. “It’s a gift.”

Some small part of the growing dread in Caleb’s gut drains away at that, not so much at his words themselves but from the kind gesture, along with the silent message carried with it: this is a gift, and  _ you deserve it _ .

Caduceus leans down to eye level with Caleb, looking into his eyes with a sudden intensity that has Caleb thinking there is not a single thing in this world he could ever conceal from this firbolg. Caduceus must find whatever he’s looking for, because then the moment is over with him straightening back up and Caleb letting go of a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. 

“Goodnight, Mr. Caleb.” Caduceus gives his shoulder a soft squeeze before turning away to walk to his room.

Caleb still doesn’t trust himself most days, but he does trust Caduceus. He just hadn’t realized how much of his peace of mind he had placed with the firbolg until he slowly recognizes the calm that settles over him, and how easily Caduceus instilled it without even meaning to. 

“Goodnight, Herr Clay.”

 

\---

 

Over time Caleb only added to his grey hair collection, and ever so slowly throughout the years began to put on some stable weight, and not just the kind he would lose again the next week when he couldn’t bring himself to eat. He doesn’t have the sort of gut he’s seen Fjord toting around these days, but he can’t help but be secretly proud of the softness over his belly. 

It’s mostly a testament to Caduceus really. While Caleb has slowly gotten better at fostering healthy study habits he still consistently forgets to eat, something easily corrected when there’s always someone around making fresh meals and watching that you eat a decent portion every time. 

As he enters the kitchen he can still smell the early-lunch stew Caduceus cooked earlier underneath the ever-present aroma of the hanging bundles of drying herbs. He passes by a low hanging bundle of rosemary and runs his fingertips along the brittle edge before making his way to the counter. He makes a note that the mint bowl next to the sink is running a bit low, and to pick more from the garden to replenish it. 

His first instinct is to use the rest of it to make one last batch of tea, before he takes into account the heat of the day and reaches instead for a pitcher of lemonade left out on the counter. He pours it out into one of the homemade cups Jester made for them – the dripping pink paint cracked under the shiny glaze.

Caleb thinks for a moment, before adding a sprig of mint on top anyways.

 

\---

 

Caleb can pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Caduceus down to the hour, minute and second. Or, more accurately, when the realization of what his feelings implied. 

The Mighty Nein are traveling during the night between towns, and are forced to set up camp when the sun sets quicker than they had expected. Caleb volunteers for dead man’s watch. He is still aching where Jester had mended some ribs broken in a fight earlier that day, and exhausted enough to pass out immediately when he hits his bedroll. But there is unrest lingering behind his eyes, and he knows what it means: four hours of sleep if he was lucky before his mind woke itself up again.

When Nott comes over to rouse Caleb during the shift change, he is already awake. He can tell she is tired too from the wordless way she nudges him, ears drooping. He watches with not a small amount of fondness as she curls up in the spot of the bedroll already warmed from his body, similar to the way Frumpkin does. 

Frumpkin was indeed snuggling close to his body heat, and looks more than a bit put off when Caleb summons him away. Caleb would feel more guilty about it were it not for the fact that familiars technically do not need the same amount of sleep that actual animals do, and the extra layer of protection Frumpkin lends him with his extra set of eyes. 

The woods they are traveling through aren’t of any immediate suspicion, and the night air is cold enough that they had decided hazarding a campfire was worth the risks. Caleb is indeed grateful as he sits against the log closest to the fire, the warm air around the flame wafting over his face nicely. Frumpkin settles down onto a hot patch of dirt closer to the base, eyes looking out into the darkness of the trees. 

The firelight casts most of his body in black shadow, while catching bright onto the tips of his fur in vibrant orange and white. If he unfocuses his eyes, he can almost imagine Frumpkin is a piece of coal being set on fire. 

Caleb’s eyes slide over to the fire proper, a distant voice in his mind remarking that he is not doing a great job at keeping watch. He watches the flickering light – red eating orange, orange eating orange, yellow eating red. Small crackles and pops sound where the flame licks to the marrow of the wood, destroying any last traces of dampness with the faintest whine like a mosquito. The logs’ center glow escape out from their blackened shells, fire and ash in the shape of the wood it had once been. The fire’s teeth finally eats through enough in a weak spot to where a log comes splintering, tumbling down into the center heart. Ash and sparks are sent shooting up into the air like a drowning man’s last splash like the dying gasp leaving a body like a beam of a house collapsing in flame.

“Mr. Caleb.”

_ Don’t _ , Caleb first thinks in panic, before realizing Caduceus is not touching him at all, only lowering himself down to sit at a personal distance from him. He only knows he had stopped breathing from the way his sharp intake of air felt too soothing for the aching in his chest.

“Caduceus.” Caleb murmurs, clearing his throat quiet enough not to disturb the resting party. He adjusted the collar of his coat to better bury his chin into his scarf, ready to let this watch pass in silence, but Caduceus speaks again.

“If I may ask something, Caleb.” Caduceus begins. Caleb turns to look him in the eye, before looking instead to the embroidery on his collar, because that is the problem with Caduceus’ company: there is a comfort in him understanding things left unsaid, but he sometimes perceived farther than what Caleb is willing to share. “Fire has an adverse affect on you, yeah? I don’t know the specifics of it but it obviously takes a toll on whatever is going on in there.”

Caduceus gestures lightly in the direction of his forehead. Caleb says nothing.

“But you still subject yourself to it. Why?”

Why is he asking him this. He obviously already knows the answer. 

Caleb summons Frumpkin to him, running his fingers through the plush texture of his fur in measured strokes. “It is necessary.”

“Maybe. I think only sometimes it is.” Caleb does not like where this conversation is going, “You know, in the wild the only times fire happens naturally is during forest fires. Big, chaotic things, but they always come to an end eventually, clearing the way for new things to grow again. That’s the way of the natural order. Everything begins, ends, and follows a continuous cycle to keep things working.”

Caleb picks out a stray bramble from Frumpkin’s coat.

“Caleb.” There is an, not urgency, but gravity to Caduceus’ voice. Caleb makes eye contact, and wishes he hadn’t.

“You have to stop feeding yourself to the fire that you keep.” Caleb needs to run, but is pinned underneath his gaze. “The dead need to be put into the ground. You need to let it die.”

Caleb swallows on nothing, and says nothing. Scheisse what are you supposed to say to that?

Caleb is grateful when Caduceus looks away and frees him from his penetrating stare. “Whatever you did, or whoever you lost, remembering them is not a bad thing. The earth remembers what falls into its soil the same as you or I, but it doesn’t remember to punish itself the same way you do. Doing so is disrespectful to what was lost. If anything, don’t insult their memory alright?”

Caleb nods slowly, “... I will try.”

Caduceus smiles, which Caleb only sees in his periphery. Caduceus gives the quietest sigh and grunt of effort as he gets his gangly limbs under him to stand.

“Well, while on the topic of natural cycles, excuse me while I go relieve myself.”

Caduceus shuffles off into the woods somewhere to the right, leaving Caleb more than a little thrown, Frumpkin purring contentedly in his lap. He sifts through Frumpkin’s fur with focus, weeding out the occasional piece of debris, because while there is truth in Caduceus’ words and he is willing to try, it is too much to think on all at once right now.

Especially on only two and a half hours of sleep.

When Caduceus comes back Frumpkin leaves Caleb’s lap in favor of butting up against Caduceus hand. He looks a bit quizzical when Frumpkin begins grooming the fur on the back of his hand, but allows it with a small smile.

Caleb crosses his arms to keep from fidgeting. A quiet voice in the back of his head wonders how the fur on Caduceus’ skin would feel under his fingers compared to Frumpkin’s.

The next day, Caduceus falls during battle. 

There is a cold, cold dread in his stomach the same as when any of them go down in a fight, but this time a voice rings loud in his head.  _ No, no, no, no, no _ .

Jester rushes to him and Caleb barely has the coherency to fire off another spell.  _ Save him, save him, save him. _

Even when breath returns to Caduceus’ lips as Jester lays hands on him the voice in his head continues on:  _ Save him, save him, save him, because I don’t want to only remember him _ .

 

\---

 

Caleb never asks about firbolg lifespans. He never even thinks to ask until it becomes all too obvious after years of living together that his body is experiencing the consequence of time, while Caduceus’ is not. He chalks it up to maybe firbolg genes allowing them to age more gracefully than himself, until he can’t anymore. There’s a strange feeling of unease in his bones when he lightly asks Caduceus about it over breakfast one day.

Caduceus tells him, and Caleb puts together why firbolgs measure time in seasons and not years.

He does his best to hide the anxiety, knowing the effort to be futile. It takes a lot to get past Caduceus’ watchful eyes, and after years of close proximity he doesn’t have a single tell on lock. He’s grateful when Caduceus doesn’t mention anything when he slips out of bed to spend the rest of the night on the couch, or how he leans away from his touch. While Caleb has gotten much better, there are still times when he becomes like this: quiet, reclusive and in need of space. Nights come when Caleb defers to the couch, or not sleep at all, and it is something that comes and passes with little consequence. So when Caduceus leans down to press a kiss into Caleb’s forehead and he flinches, he let’s Caleb retreat to his study without a word – perhaps intuiting this is just one of those things he has to work out in his own time.

Caleb recognizes it for what it is: the beginning of another one of his self-defeating cycles where no one wins and he only digs himself deeper into the ugly parts of his mind. But he still can’t help the guilt that drowns out his thoughts in the hours of the night where there is nothing to distract him from the haunting mantra:

Five hundred years. Five  _ hundred _ years.

Caleb will be lucky to reach ninety, one hundred at the very most. And yet he is still here, sharing this house with Caduceus, sharing his meals, his bed, and making himself a fixture in his life knowing he will never be able to reciprocate the kind of companionship Caduceus deserves.

Knowing he will unwillingly be forced to abandon him one day.

Caleb tosses and turns for the third time in as many minutes on the living room couch, gazing up sleeplessly at the darkened ceiling. It’s not just the guilt that is eating at him either – because as much as he is admittedly too fast to succumb to self-flagellation, he knows himself to be a selfish man. He is a selfish man who knows what he wants, and knows what he wants to choose. 

He knows the only obstacle keeping it from him is his own fear. 

After a lifetime of battling himself, he thinks he’s earned some selfishness.

Mind quieted enough, he sits up from the couch, making his way to their bedroom. The floorboards creak softly under his feet, complementing the nocturnal insects filtering in through the windows.

Caduceus seems to be asleep, turned away from his empty side of the bed, but when Caleb pulls back the sheet to slip beneath, Caduceus shifts with a mild hum of acknowledgement. Caleb throws an arm over his ribs, tugging himself flush against the plane of his back while Caduceus brings up a hand to run his thumb over the back of Caleb’s. The soft fur of Caduceus’ back smells faintly of mulch when Caleb runs his nose through it.

“Caduceus.”

“Mm?” He sounds half asleep, but Caleb can see one of his ears perk backwards to show he is listening.

“Marry me.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, but after all the worrying he’s done so far Caleb can’t find it in him to be nervous now. Caduceus removes his hand from Caleb’s, and he’s ready to defend his reasoning against the questions he’s already imagined, but Caduceus just turns his body so that he is facing Caleb before drawing him back in close. He presses a kiss into the crown of his head before resting his chin atop of it, long fingers idly petting through his hair.

“Sure.”

 

\---

 

They don’t have a formal ceremony, and they don’t exchange rings.

After all, Caleb isn’t a man much for jewelry, and Caduceus still has the heart pendant Caleb gifted him so long ago.

 

\---

 

Maybe if Caleb was a slightly different man than the one he turned out to be he would be self conscious about the comparison between his aging features versus Caduceus’ timeless ones.

He looks out over the garden to where Caduceus has begun inspecting the leaves of their basil plant, humming some meandering tune to himself. Yes, in another life he might have been bitter, but when he sees the delicate way his husband turns over a leaf, murmuring something about snails under his breath, there is only room for contentment in his heart.

_ How lucky I am _ . 

The thought comes easy and without guilt, simply an appreciation of what is and what he has.

He gives Frumpkin a passing stomach pet with his toes as he steps off the porch into the garden. He doesn’t try to be especially sneaky, but for all his perceptiveness Caduceus still gives a mild look of surprise when Caleb lowers the glass of lemonade into his field of vision. He makes a small noise of thanks and presses his nose into the back of Caleb’s hand before accepting the glass. 

“Thank you, darling.” It’s the first words he’s said to him today.

They can go days like this, never actually speaking to each other. Lazy days pass where everything that needs to be said is passed along in small noises, touches, and looks.

Caleb sits down next to Caduceus, tapping out some meaningless rhythm into his lower back and pressing a smile into his shoulder. It’s amazing how he can hear the responding grin just in how Caduceus’ breath changes.

After a few sips, Caduceus plants the glass on a flat patch of earth and leans back to splay out on the ground, his sun hat knocked askew like a crooked halo. He pats the earth next to him in a silent request and, well, with an invitation that inviting how can he say no?

Caleb lays himself down next to Caduceus, shoulders just touching, and closes his eyes.

He rests to the sound of distant insects, the soft earth under him, and the feeling of a steady body next to his.

 

\---

 

The change is more difficult than expected, if Caduceus is being honest with himself. In some ways it’s about what he  _ had _ expected: he handles the death and burial with as much grace as is typical of his character. 

Beau is the only one besides himself present for the brief service. She only sheds a couple tears that are lost in the folds of her wrinkled face, leaning on the staff she uses more as a cane than as a weapon these days. 

Caduceus has plenty of time to ready himself before the passing, years really, and so he does not have any pressing need to grieve afterwards.

The emptiness of the house is what surprises him. 

He doesn’t mourn the absence, but it’s impossible not to feel the empty spaces where he used to be all the same.

Caduceus lived a life of almost complete solitude in his original house in the Blooming Grove. He knows how to be comfortable in the company of one’s own self, the surrounding plant growth, and the ambient noise of a growing world. The prospect of being alone again has never been a source of dread. But still, as Caduceus roams through the house, he feels the absence of a quill being scratched across paper, feline noises coming from the kitchen, and the extra portion he is used to preparing.

When he settles into bed, he sometimes wakes with one arm outstretched to the other side of the mattress. 

But while he feels these absences, he does not become bitter over them. It is not in his nature to do so. 

Instead as he makes his way out into the garden, he feels the soft turned soil under his bare feet and the smell of fresh pollen in the air. He wonders at what a gift it was to share the life that he had.

The mint bush has taken well to the plot in the garden where Caleb is buried – expanding far past its original space to obscure the dirt over the grave. Caduceus kneels down to pluck a couple small stalks and presses them into the hot water already poured in his mug. He gives it a moment to steep, taking the opportunity to fold his legs underneath himself and settle into a more comfortable position. He closes his eyes and takes a deep inhale of the fresh steam, absorbing the tinkle of windchimes and distant calls of newly-emerging cicadas. 

He takes a slow sip from his mug, feeling the warmth spread throughout his body. He tilts the lip of the cup towards the grave plot with a quiet grin.

“Thank you, darling.”

**Author's Note:**

> flowers grow out of my grave - dead man's bones
> 
> [tumblr](http://crayfishcoffee.tumblr.com/) \- [twitter](https://twitter.com/crayfishcoffee)


End file.
